


You Won't Do This Alone

by Luzula



Category: due South
Genre: Backstory, Canonical Character Death, Gen, Partnership, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:18:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luzula/pseuds/Luzula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath of Caroline's death, written from Buck's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Won't Do This Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This is not exactly a happy story, so give it a pass if you don't feel up to it. [](http://helens78.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**helens78**](http://helens78.dreamwidth.org/) came up with the idea for it in a rewatch chat, and she has also beta-read it. Thank you, Helens, you are a rockstar! I wrote it for the [Leslie Nielsen Buck Frobisher Memorial Thing-a-thon](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_noticeboard/1334393.html), and I'm sorry to write such a sad story for that collection, but this is what came to me.

Telegram to Buck Frobisher: CAROLINE FRASER DEAD STOP COME IF YOU CAN STOP

***

Buck came up to the cabin at last, tired out from two long days of sledding. To his anxious gaze, it seemed almost abandoned. As if everyone inside were dead, his morbid imagination provided. The last few days of snow had piled up without anyone to shovel it away, and in the lingering light of day, he couldn't see if any lights were on in the windows. Then he saw the wisp of smoke rising from the chimney, and sighed in relief.

Someone was alive, at least.

Buck tied the sled to a tree and unhooked the necklines of the dogs. Some part of him was dreading going into that house, and he supposed he could have delayed it by staking the dogs, but no. He had to know. There had only been that one telegram, sent by one of Bob and Caroline's neighbors, and it had struck his heart with dread with the one piece of information it had contained.

Buck strode up to the door, wading through the snow. Someone had at least walked here recently, but it must have been yesterday, because the tracks were snowed over.

He knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked again, his heart constricting with fear. "It's me, Buck!"

Then he opened the door and entered, closing it quickly behind him so as not to let the heat out. "Hello? Anyone here?"

"Yes," said a voice from the table. It was Benton. His eyes looked big and dark, and he was wearing a sweater that Buck remembered Caroline knitting the last time he was here. No, he couldn't think of that.

"Oh, Benton," he said, reaching out to the boy in an awkward half-hug. The boy shrank away a little, and Buck realized that he was still wearing his cold outdoor clothes, with snow stuck in the fur on his parka. He went back to the door and began to take off his outer layers.

A husky sat up at Benton's feet, and Buck recognized it as one of Bob's wheel dogs. Benton dug his fingers into the ruff at the dog's neck. "I know the dogs shouldn't be inside," Benton said quickly. "But..."

"Don't worry about it," Buck said. "Is your father here?"

Benton glanced at the door to the bedroom, which stood ajar. "Yes."

Buck knocked at it. "Bob? Are you there?"

No reply. He pushed the door open. Bob Fraser was sitting on a chair by the bed. His head moved slowly to look up at Buck. He was unshaven, his eyes dark and shadowed as if he hadn't slept in days.

Bob cleared his throat, as if he hadn't spoken in days, either. "You came."

"Of course I came. What's happened? I got a telegram, but it only said..." Buck trailed off, reluctant to say it.

"She's dead."

"But how? What happened to her?"

Bob only shook his head, and sank back into that mute stillness. Buck wanted to shake him, to make him tell, and went so far as to put a hand on his shoulder, but stopped himself.

"Bob," he said, and trailed off. He didn't know how to deal with this.

Instead, he retreated into practicalities. "Have you eaten?"

Bob shook his head. "I'm not hungry."

"Well, you need to eat. I'll make something." He went out into the main room of the cabin. The stove, which was used for heating and cooking both, only had a few smoldering embers left, and the basket used for carrying firewood was empty. No wonder it was getting cold in here. He looked in the cupboards. Flour, sugar, dried peas, canned tomatoes and brown beans, some other staples. Well, cooking wasn't one of his strong suits, but he could make beans of some sort. Throw in some pemmican, maybe.

But first, firewood. He looked around to see Benton watching him silently. Perhaps he should give the boy something to do—it would be better for him than just sitting there.

"Benton? Could you fetch some firewood?"

The boy hesitated, then nodded. His face was pale. He went to put on boots and parka, took the basket and went out the door.

They were supposed to be happy, damn it. Buck had loved Caroline, too, but she had chosen his best friend over him. Buck had struggled with that, but in the end he had loved them both too much to give them up. He had learned to be happy for them. Buck himself hadn't married yet. Bob teased him and said he had a girl in every town, and Buck supposed he was a bit of a flirt, but he just hadn't found anyone quite like Caroline yet.

And now? Caroline was dead and Bob just sat there like he might as well be dead, too. Useless anger burned in Buck's chest. He felt his hands trembling and gripped the can of beans harder to stop it.

Benton came back with the firewood. "Good lad," Buck said. "Do you know how to build up the fire?"

Benton nodded, and Buck opened a can of beans and one of tomatoes. He kept a watchful eye on Benton, but he seemed to know what he was doing. Buck didn't really know how to handle a six-year-old boy, let alone one who had lost his mother.

 _Christ, don't think about Caroline._ Buck pushed the thought away and began to set the table to have something to do. The fire was soon blazing and the food was done. Buck knocked on the door to Bob's room. "Dinner's done."

No reply. He opened the door, and Bob was still sitting there as if he hadn't moved at all.

"Come on." Buck took him by the arm and pulled him up and over to the table. He didn't resist, but neither did he help.

They all ate. Benton looked anxiously at his father, but Bob didn't respond, just ate his stew mechanically.

Buck felt helpless. The cabin was utterly silent, except for the occasional pop of a burning piece of wood in the stove. The winter cold crept along the window and floor, waiting for the fire to go out, and in all this dark silent freezing land there was no one but them.

Where was she? In the ground and buried already? No, he couldn't bring himself to ask.

A whine from the sled dog that Benton had brought in broke the silence. "I need to stake the dogs," Buck muttered, grateful for the task.

"Has your team been fed?" he asked Bob.

"My team...?" he said slowly.

"I fed them," Benton said. "Morning and night."

"Very good, Ben," Buck said.

"I'll come with you," Benton offered, glancing nervously at his father.

They went out into the bitter cold. The night was clear, and the stars shone down indifferently from above. Buck worked quickly, taking the dogs' harnesses off with his thin gloves on before he pulled on his thick mittens again and stretched a line between two trees. The snow was thick and soft, and the dogs could dig holes for themselves. He took his axe and chopped up pieces of meat and tallow for the hungry dogs.

Benton was done with feeding Bob's team before Buck was done with staking and feeding his own, and came to help him. Buck's heart went out to the boy.

"I'm so sorry, Ben. Your mother isn't coming back."

"I know she's not coming back. She's dead," Benton said in a low, matter-of-fact voice. He didn't sound like a child at all. But when Buck took his hand on the way back to the cabin, he clutched at it hard.

The fire was burning down when they got back inside, and Buck put new firewood in. Bob had gone into the bedroom again. All the doings of the day came over Buck like a weight on his shoulders, and he wanted to sleep for a week. With no dreams.

"Bob?" He went into the bedroom. It was dark now, and Bob's figure looked like a shadow.

"Bob, let's go to bed."

Bob turned his head towards him, and Buck came closer and gripped his shoulders with both hands. "Please. Tell me how she died."

Bob shook his head slowly. Buck felt as if he could see the knowledge like a heavy stone around Bob's neck.

Why couldn't he get through to him? Damn it all to hell, Buck thought, and wanted to shake the man. Instead, he pulled him in close and wrapped his arms around him, though he'd never done that before. He thought it was about what Bob needed, trying to comfort him, but Buck felt himself start to shake and held on tighter.

He couldn't cry. Buck blinked and breathed into Bob's shoulder. He smelled musty, as if he hadn't changed clothes in days. No, of course he hadn't.

"I can't," Bob was saying into Buck's neck. "I can't."

"Then at least tell me where she is. Is she buried already?"

Bob shook his head and dug his hands almost painfully into Buck's shoulders.

"Then where is she?"

"In the woodshed," Bob said in a voice so low Buck almost didn't hear him. "The neighbor helped me. Before he went into town to send the telegrams."

"The woodshed?" Buck repeated. Then he realized what he'd done earlier.

"Oh, _hell_ ," he swore, and let go of Bob, who slumped down onto the chair again. Benton was sitting on the floor with his arms around the husky, who sat patiently and let him.

"I didn't know she was out there. When I sent you for the wood, I mean. I'm so sorry, Ben." It would be a wonder if the boy wasn't scarred for life.

Benton looked at him steadily. "Someone had to get the firewood," he said in a small voice.

"Well, next time it won't be you. And there's enough wood for tonight, anyway." Buck rubbed at his tired eyes. "Come on, let's go to bed. Where do you sleep, Ben?"

Benton pointed silently to the small room beside the bedroom. But no, it wouldn't do to let the boy sleep all alone after that.

"We'll all sleep in the same room," he decided. "The bed is big enough."

Buck had shared a bed with Bob often enough on the trail, when the temperature dropped down low and the easiest way to conserve body heat was to share it. But they'd never had a small boy between them before.

They piled all the blankets and furs on the bed and lay in the warm nest together, and Buck fell into a deep exhausted sleep between the sheets that, God help him, still smelled of Caroline.

***

In the morning Buck fetched more firewood. He didn't know what he'd expected, but mercifully Caroline was wrapped in a sheet. There was blood on it.

His police training kicked in, and he stared at those dark reddish-brown blotches. There was too much blood for this to be anything but physical violence, and the blood was right over her chest. A gun, or a knife.

Then he suddenly felt nauseous at the thought of examining her body as if it was just another bit of evidence. He leaned against one of the piles of wood, trying to concentrate on his breathing and get himself under control. It didn't have to be murder, just because his instincts told him it was. And who would murder Caroline, anyway? Himself or Bob, he could understand—they'd caught enough criminals and had plenty of enemies.

A gun accident? Caroline had a hunting rifle. But he'd seen her hunt, and she'd never been anything less than careful with her gun. What about Benton? Maybe he'd wanted to try out the rifle, and...

No, he had to stop speculating. Buck piled firewood into the basket, keeping his eyes and his thoughts firmly on what he was doing.

He set out hunting in the afternoon, feeling almost relieved to escape the cabin, and guilty at his relief. He got two ptarmigans. It would do them all good to have some fresh meat.

The evening was silent again. He should do something, anything. Get Caroline into town for a proper burial. But the mere thought of what he'd need to do, the practical details of it, made him shrink back almost in panic. He couldn't.

Well, he could make dinner, at least. He set Benton to setting the table, and any other easy tasks that Buck could think of, while he cooked the birds.

"Bob? Dinner is done," he said, coming into the bedroom for Bob. He was sitting on that same chair, and Buck had the eerie sensation that time had not passed at all since the evening before. Bob would sit there and say nothing, and he never would say anything. Not ever again.

Buck felt like he was losing him, too. He gripped Bob's shoulder hard, squeezing him to feel that he was still warm and alive. Bob made a slight grunt of protest, and Buck let up.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. Come on and eat." He took Bob by the hand and pulled him out to the table, trying not to grip his hand tight.

They ate in silence.

***

The next morning after breakfast, Buck heard a low humming noise that seemed to come from everywhere at once. He couldn't place it at first, but then it grew louder and nearer, and he threw his parka on and went out.

A snowmobile made its way towards them, pushing its heavy muzzle steadily through the snow. It carried two people, heavily bundled up. Both teams of dogs were barking at this mechanical intruder, and Buck shouted at them to no effect. Then he recognized Bob's father, George Fraser, as he got off the snowmobile and pulled his scarf down far enough to show his face. He'd met Bob's parents a few times.

Martha Fraser got off as well. "Buck Frobisher? Is that you?"

"Yes. Bob's inside. Did you hear about...?"

She nodded. "We got a telegram."

Buck yielded with a sense of great relief to Martha Fraser's authority. She swept into the kitchen and filled the cupboards with the supplies they had brought, then began cooking. She reacted with a terse nod to the news of Caroline's body in the woodshed, and exchanged a glance with George. He nodded wordlessly and went out to fetch firewood and build up the fire to blazing.

Buck was set to sweeping the floor, and Bob submitted to her directions as well. Buck had previously heard him complain about his domineering mother, but when she sent him out to shovel snow, he went without a word of protest. He shoveled broad paths to the dog kennel, Bucks' staked-out team, the outhouse, and the woodshed, and came in sweating and tired.

"Wash off and change your clothes," Martha said, and poured a kettle of water she had heated over the stove in the bathing tub. He did.

After they ate, George said, "We'll help you get her into town for a proper burial. If you don't want to do it yourself?" He looked at Bob questioningly.

Bob looked as if he was struggling with himself, then nodded. "Please."

"I'm so sorry, son," George added.

"How did she die?" Martha asked, in a softer tone than her usual one.

Bob said nothing, and the silence stretched out. Finally he said, "I...I can't."

"You've got to tell us," Martha said, somewhat sharper. "What happened? Were you here to see it? Was it an accident?"

"Give the man some time!" Buck broke in, forgetting his own frustration with not knowing. "His wife just died, for God's sake."

Martha shook her head, looking tired suddenly. "Perhaps you're right. Well, we can't start for town tonight—it's already dark. Let's have an early night and we can leave tomorrow morning."

Martha and George had brought extra bedding, just in case, and they slept in Benton's small room while the other three shared the same bed, as they had the night before. Buck spent a half-sleepless night, with elusive and disturbing dreams that he couldn't quite remember in the morning. He tried not to toss and turn so he wouldn't disturb Benton, who lay still and quiet beside him. Thank god for the easy sleep of the young.

Buck woke still feeling tired, but there was work to do. After breakfast, they packed, and Buck readied his team. Bob did the same, and Martha and George carried out Caroline's body from the woodshed, wrapped in a blanket besides the sheet that was already around her. They began to put her in the cargo sled that was attached to the back of the snowmobile.

"No," Bob said suddenly. "No, I'll take her on my sled."

Buck could see why—she'd have to be tied down not to fall off, and it looked very uncomfortable. Not that it would matter to her anymore, but...

She was frozen stiff, but Bob's sled was long and Caroline was not a tall woman, and when she was bedded down, one could almost imagine that she could be lying there alive. Buck didn't cry, but there was something heavy in his chest, weighing him down. He had to fight to breathe against it.

Buck suddenly noticed that Benton was standing off to the side, watching. "Damn it," he muttered, and went off to him.

"Ben, do you want to ride in my sled?" The boy nodded. Buck remembered how excited he had been last winter, when Bob took him riding in his sled, but now there was only a dull acceptance.

***

The minister at the small church had extra graves dug every fall. It could have seemed morbid, perhaps, to anticipate death that way, but it was only practical: no one could dig in the deep-frozen earth once winter set in. Now Caroline would have one of them. Bob and Buck had shoveled the snow away until the tarp over the grave could be pulled off, and then hacked at the frozen pile of dirt next to it until it was loose enough to shovel into the grave.

Buck was sweating in his parka, in a way he would never have permitted himself to do out on the trail. He was grateful for the hard work, because it meant he didn't have to think, only concentrate on getting the next hard clod of earth loose. Beside him, Bob did the same. They didn't speak.

It snowed at Caroline's funeral. The snow came down in thick flakes, almost obscuring George and Martha on the other side of the grave as the minister read words that Buck didn't hear. Buck felt the snow as the isolation of grief, the way every one of them was alone with the weight of it. Tears came from his eyes, but they didn't lighten his heart. He wiped them away so they wouldn't freeze on his face.

Bob was standing next to him, with Benton between them. Buck couldn't see Bob's face past the fur on his parka. His head was bowed, and Buck wondered if he was crying. He wished he could reach out to Bob, the way he had held him in the cabin, but he could just as well have been on the moon for all the help Buck could give him.

Instead, he put his hand on the boy's shoulder, trying to give him some sort of comfort, though what use it was he didn't know. What would become of Benton? Buck pushed away the memory of the first time he'd seen Caroline with tiny little Benton, the joy on her face. No use.

They spent the night at the RCMP detachment, bedding down on the floor to let George and Martha have the bunks.

***

In the morning, Bob was gone.

Buck vaguely remembered waking in the night when Bob moved from his side, and Bob hushing him, saying he was just going to the outhouse.

Buck looked out the window. Bob's team was gone, too, and all his gear, and a sizable amount of food, both for the dogs and for himself. Where on earth had he gone? He'd left Buck here with everything, with his parents and Benton and...

"Where's he gone?" Martha said, waking up. George stirred beside her.

"I've no idea," Buck said tersely.

"None at all?" Martha prodded.

"No."

"Well, you'd better go and find him, then," George said.

George was right. Bob was grieving and might not be in his right mind. For all Buck knew, Bob could be looking for a quiet snowdrift where he could lie down and die.

"Right you are," Buck said grimly and began pulling his clothes on. "Wait—what about Benton?"

"We'll take him on," Martha said. "We talked with Bob last night. He's in no condition to be the sole caretaker of a child."

***

Bob had taken some pains to hide his trail, but Buck wasn't a Mountie for nothing. He made a wide loop around the small town. There were many tracks, but with the heavy snowfall yesterday, it was easy to tell which ones were fresh. He found the faint marks from Bob's dogs and sled runners on top of a frozen snowmobile track. Buck set his jaw. Why on earth was Bob hiding from his own partner?

"Haw!" he cried, and his team turned left onto the tracks. After a kilometer or two, he found the tracks of Bob's sled turning south, off the snowmobile tracks. Buck turned, too.

When the sun was at its highest in the sky, just over the treetops, Buck stopped for a bite to eat and a drink. It was obvious by now that Bob had a goal, and it wasn't lying down to die. He had a head start, yes, but he'd had to break the trail, so Buck's dogs had easier going.

"You just keep up," he muttered to the dogs, stopping to scratch his lead dog behind the ears. "Keep pulling, and we'll get him."

He chopped up some frozen meat for the dogs. They wolfed it down, and Buck set off again.

There was a moon that night, and Buck went on by moonlight. The snow shone in the cold blue light, but the contours of every snowdrift were softened and hard to make out. Buck prayed he wouldn't lose the trail.

He came on Bob unexpectedly as he cleared a group of spruce trees. The man was obviously taking a break, though he hadn't camped for the night. They stared at each other for a short moment, and then Bob made a move as if to start his sled again.

"No, you don't," Buck said and drove his sled alongside, pushing Bob away from his sled.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" Buck asked. Bob set his mouth in the stubborn expression that Buck knew well, and said nothing. Buck felt a sudden blaze of anger at him, and got up in his face. "Tell me!"

Bob still said nothing, and Buck pushed him hard. Bob grabbed him and pulled him down with him, and they were wrestling in the deep snow. Buck lost his hat, and snow got down his neck, but he didn't care. All his frustration at the uselessness of it all boiled over in a senseless fury. Did he think he was the only one who was grieving? Damn the man, with his goddamn idiot refusal to say anything. He kept it all to himself, like the selfish bastard that he was.

Buck came to himself, straddling Bob's chest and breathing heavily. It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but he thought Bob was bleeding from the nose.

"Sorry. I'm so sorry," Buck said.

Bob stared up at him, then shrugged, wiping at his nose. "I'm pretty sure I gave you a black eye."

Buck felt the pain only then, throbbing in his face.

"You going to let me go?" Bob said.

Buck shook his head. "You're going to tell me what happened to Caroline. If you don't, we can lie here until we freeze to death for all I care."

It occurred to Buck that this might not be a good thing to say to a man who he'd thought might be suicidal, but he didn't care. He meant every word.

"I didn't want you involved in this," Bob said.

"I'm already involved, you idiot."

"No, you don't understand. I'm going after him. And when I find him, I'm going to kill him."

"Kill who? Goddamn it, Bob."

"Muldoon."

"Holloway Muldoon?"

Bob nodded. "He shot her."

"Why on earth would he...?"

"He's not what we thought he was. He's a smuggler, deals in endangered animals. Found out I was onto him, and he—to escape, he—" Bob broke off.

Buck realized he was still straddling Bob, and got off him, offering him a hand to get up.

"I don't care what happens to me," Bob said, "but I didn't want you involved in this."

Buck shook his head slowly. "If you think you're doing this alone, you're an idiot. Come on, let's make camp."

Bob stared at him for a long while. Then he bowed his head in acceptance.

"And don't you dare slip away from me in the night. Promise me you won't."

"I suppose I've tried that, and it didn't work." Bob gave him a ghost of his old smile. "All right. I promise."

They made camp and slept, two men alone together in the vast cold night.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Won't Do This Alone (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/600594) by [h78podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/h78podfic/pseuds/h78podfic)




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